Where There's Smoke

by Simon Beckett

  "Very well, thank you." She looked down at the circulars on her mat. "Are they for me? "Kate picked them up again and handed them to her, resigned to seeing the routine through.

  "Nothing exciting, I don't think."

  As far as she could tell, Miss Willoughby never received any letters. But she always came out to check when Kate arrived home. Kate knew she was only using the post as an excuse, and usually didn't mind chatting to her for a few minutes. That evening, though, it was an unwelcome effort.

  Miss Willoughby peered through her gold-rimmed spectacles at the fliers and special offers, and for a moment Kate thought she might escape easily. She started drifting towards her door, but then the old lady looked up again. "No, nothing there for me. Still, you never know, do you?"

  Kate forced a smile of agreement as Miss Willoughby leaned both hands on her walking stick, a sure sign that she was settling herself for a lengthy conversation. But before she could say anything else, a grey shape emerged with a clatter through the cat flap in the front door. The tom cat miaowed and rubbed around Kate's legs, then darted towards the old lady's doorway.

  "No, you don't, Dougal," Kate said, grabbing it. The cat, a big tabby, squirmed to be put down. "I'd better take him in. If he gets in your flat we'll never get him out," she said, seizing the opportunity.

  Miss Willoughby's smile never wavered. "Oh, that's all right. But I won't keep you. I expect you'll both be hungry."

  With a final goodnight, she went back inside as Kate unlocked her own door. There was a cat flap in that as well, but Dougal saw no reason to use it when Kate was there to let him in. She closed the door behind her before letting the cat jump down. His miaows receded towards the kitchen as he ran up the carpeted stairs. Kate followed more slowly, feeling churlish now for dodging the old lady. Sighing, she took off her jacket, wrinkling her nose at the lingering smell of smoke. She put it on a coat-hanger, ready to take to the cleaners, and it was only when she saw the bulge in one pocket that she remembered the mitten. The irrationality of the impulse that had made her keep it disturbed her. Decisively, she took it out and went to the bin in the kitchen. The lid sprang open when she stamped on the foot pedal, releasing a faint, sweet smell of rot. Kate looked at the hash of egg shells and vegetable peelings, holding the mitten poised above them. But she was no more able to throw it away now than before. She took her foot from the pedal, letting the lid slap down, and went back into her bedroom. Pulling open a drawer, she thrust the mitten far into the back under a pile of clean towels, then pushed the drawer firmly shut.

  Kate went back into the hall, untying her hair with a little sigh of relief. The message light was flashing on the answerphone. She played back the tape, but whoever it had been had hung up without speaking.

  Barefoot, she went into the lounge. Like the rest of the flat, its walls were plain white, partly because she preferred the simplicity of such a colour scheme, and partly because the house faced away from the sun and was quite dark. Even now, when it was still light outside, the white walls did little to lift the gloomy twilight.

  Kate switched on a table lamp. The furniture in the room was clean-lined and modern, except for an old pine seaman's trunk that served as a coffee table. On the wall was an abstract oil she'd bought from an exhibition, the only splash of colour on the otherwise blank backdrop. The flat was much cosier in winter, when the long nights came and she could draw the curtains and fill the corners with artificial light. Now, though, dark as the flat was, there was something not quite right about having a lamp on when it was still daylight outside. She turned it off again and switched on the TV instead. Idly, she flicked through the channels. There was nothing on that interested her, but it illuminated the room a little, and the sound of voices gave the flat a less empty feel.

  There was a miaow as the cat wrapped himself around her legs, butting his head against her ankles. "You hungry, Dougal?" She picked him up. He was big, even for a tom, with close-set eyes that gave him a stupid, perpetually surprised expression. He had come with the flat, an extra that hadn't been mentioned by the estate agent when she'd bought it. The middle-aged couple who'd lived there before hadn't bothered to take their pet with them when they'd left. Kate hadn't wanted a cat, but Dougal had been either too stupid or too determined to accept that. He wriggled free and jumped onto the floor, miaowing. "All right, I know it's dinner-time." Kate went into the kitchen and took a tin of cat food from the wall cupboard.

  The cat jumped up onto the work surface and tried to eat the meat as she was forking it into the dish. She pushed him back down. "Just wait, gutbucket.

  "Kate set the dish on the floor and watched as the cat began to gulp at the food. She considered getting something to eat herself. She opened the fridge, stared inside, then closed it again. A bray of false laughter came from the lounge. Kate went back in. A sitcom was on the TV, noisy and colourful. She switched it off. The hysterical images disappeared as the screen went blank, the laughter abruptly severed. Silence crowded into the room. It seemed darker than ever, but she made no move to turn on the lamp. From the kitchen she heard the faint sound of the cat's dish softly scraping on the kitchen floor. What's wrong with me? Winning the Parker Trust account was the biggest coup of her career. She should have been euphoric. Instead she felt nothing. There was no satisfaction, no sense of having achieved anything. Nothing, after all, had changed. She looked around the darkening lounge. Is this it? Is this all there's going to be. The sound of the cat-flap slapping shut came from the hallway. Dougal had eaten his fill and gone out again. She was alone. All at once the darkness, the quiet was oppressive. She turned on the lamp and quickly set the CD playing without caring what was in it. The sound of Tom Jones belting out "It's Not Unusual filled the room. Kate went into the hallway and picked up the phone. She had made no arrangements to go out that evening, knowing that if she had lost the pitch she wouldn't want to. Now, though, the thought of staying in by herself appalled her. The phone rang only twice at the other end before a woman's voice answered. "Hello?"

  "Hi, Lucy, it's Kate."

  "Oh, Kate, hi! Hang on." There was a hollow clunk as the receiver went down. Kate heard Lucy raising her voice in the background. There was a childish objection that she overruled, then she was back. "Sorry about that. Slight disagreement over which programme we want to watch."

  "Who won?"

  "I did. I told her she could either watch EastEnders with me or go to bed. So she's suddenly an EastEnders fan. Anyway, how did it go?"

  "We got it."

  "Oh, Kate, that's fantastic. You must be over the moon!"

  "Well, I don't think it's really sunk in yet."

  "It will! So you're off out celebrating tonight, then?"

  Kate transferred the receiver to her other ear so she could hear better over the noise from the CD. "Er, no. Look, I wondered if you fancied going out somewhere? My treat, so long as Jack doesn't mind babysitting."

  "Tonight? Oh, Kate, I can't! Jack's not going to be in till later."

  Kate kept the disappointment from her voice. "It doesn't matter. It was pretty short notice."

  "I know, but we've not been out together for ages! Tell you what, why don't you come over? Bring a couple of bottles of wine, and with a bit of luck we can be pissed by the time Jack gets home."

  Kate felt her spirits lift. "Are you sure?"

  "Of course. So long as you don't mind playing aunty again if the kids aren't in bed."

  Kate smiled at the thought of Lucy's children. "I'd love to." She told Lucy she'd be over in an hour and hung up, her melancholy gone. She was busy again, with somewhere to go and something to do. She would laugh and play with Emily and Angus, get a little drunk with Lucy, and kick herself out of any self- indulgent blues. She did a hip-twitching dance as Tom went into overdrive. She phoned for a cab, then poured herself a glass of wine from the fridge. "Cheers," she toasted herself. She took the glass into the bathroom and put it on the edge of the bath while she undressed. She studied herself briefly i
n the mirror as she waited for the water to run hot, wishing as usual that she was tall and elegant instead of small and trim. But, on a high now, she didn't let it worry her. She showered quickly, humming as the stinging water sluiced away the day's events. She had dried herself and was just beginning to dress when the doorbell rang. The cab was early. Damn. Kate hesitated, debating whether to throw on more clothes before going to answer it. A second, longer ring decided her. Pulling on a towelling robe, she ran downstairs. The blurred silhouette of a man was visible through the coloured diamonds of the stained-glass panel. Kate unlocked the door and opened it a crack. "Sorry, you're too -" she began, and stopped. Paul was standing in the porch. He grinned at her. "Too what?"

  The sight of him froze her. She tried to kick-start herself over the shock. "What are you doing here?"

  "I've come to offer my congratulations."

  He lifted up the bottle of champagne he was gripping by the neck. Kate could smell the beer on his breath, sour and mingled with a waft of cigarette. There was something about his smile that she didn't like. She kept hold of the door, barring him. "I'm going out."

  His grin broadened as he slid his gaze down her body. She resisted the impulse to clutch the robe tighter. "The taxi'll be here any minute. I've got to finish getting dressed."

  He moved his eyes from her breasts. "Don't mind me. Won't be anything I've not seen before, will it?"

  He stepped forward as she began to protest, and she instinctively moved away from him. That was all the space he needed to wedge his shoulders in the doorway, levering the door open against her pressure. He forced her back another pace, and then he was inside.

  "Paul!" she began, but he brushed past her. "Come on, Kate, I thought you were in a hurry?"

  He went heavily up the stairs, bumping off the wall as he stumbled against it. Kate stood in the small hallway as his footsteps clumped into the lounge. Don't go up, leave him, don't go up! a small voice shrilled. But she didn't know what else she could do. Closing the front door, but not the one to her flat at the bottom of the stairs, she ran after him. Paul was sprawled on the sofa, arms spread across its back. His face was flushed. He hadn't changed much since the last time she had seen him. His dark-blond hair was a little longer, and she noticed the slight tightness of shirt against gut. But the condescending arrogance with which he greeted the world was still the same. He smirked at her. "Nice place you've got here."

  "How did you find out where I live?"

  "If you wanted to keep it a secret, you should go ex-directory. And I'd change the message on your answerphone, if I were you. You sound really bored on it."

  Kate stood by the doorway. "I want you to leave."

  "Aren't you even going to offer me a drink?" He waggled the champagne. "No?" He let the bottle drop onto the sofa. "So much for congratulations."

  "Why've you come, Paul?"

  A look of uncertainty touched his face, as though he didn't know himself. Then it was gone. "To see you. What's the matter—too good to talk to me now?"

  "There's nothing to say. And I've told you, I'm going out."

  "Where?"

  "To Lucy's." The reflex to tell him came before she could stop it. She hated herself for the automatic surrender. The unpleasant smile was back on Paul's mouth. "So you're still seeing that cow?"

  "She isn't a cow, and who I see isn't any of your business anyway."

  His smile died. "I'd forgotten how fucking smug you are."

  Kate didn't say anything.

  "Oh, spare me the injured look!" Paul regarded her sourly. "Christ, you haven't changed, have you? St Kate, still acting as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth."

  He sat forward, suddenly. "Come on, don't pretend you're not enjoying this! You did it! You beat me! You can crow about it, I don't mind."

  "I just want you to go."

  "What, just like that?" He looked at her with mock surprise. "This is your big chance! You finally gave that bastard Paul Sutherland his comeuppance! Don't you want to rub my face in it?"

  Kate felt the old guilt working. Beating him hadn't given her the lift she'd expected, but she couldn't deny it had been an incentive. The strength of her desire to apologise, to say he was right, maddened her. "What makes you think you're important enough for me to be bothered?"

  He grinned, pleased to have provoked her. "Because I know you. I know what you're like. Christ, I should do, I lived with you long enough." The thin veneer over his anger was beginning to crack. "God, look at you. Miss Superior. You think you're it, don't you? Well, you're not. You're nothing. If not for me you'd still be peddling shitty little accounts!"

  "That's not how I remember it."

  "No? Who gave you your first fucking break, then?"

  The retort came before she could stop it. "And that wasn't all you gave me, was it?"

  He stared at her. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  Kate looked away. "Look, Paul, this is pointless. I'm sorry you're disappointed, but -"

  "Disappointed? Why the fuck should I be disappointed? Just because some conniving bitch screws me out of an account I've been working my balls off for?"

  "I didn't screw you out of anything."

  "No? Who did you screw, then? Was it the whole board, or just Redwood?"

  She held open the door. "I want you to go. Now."

  He laughed, but there was no humour in it. "Come on, Kate, you can tell me. Did he touch your spot like I used to?"

  "Get out! Now!"

  He was up off the sofa before she could move. He grabbed her around the throat with one hand. The other pressed against her chin, forcing her head back.

  "Don't fucking tell me what to do!"

  Kate felt his spittle fleck her face. His breath was thick with alcohol. She tried to prise his hands from her, but he was too strong. His face worked.

  "You bitch! You think you're so fucking clever, don't you?"

  He jammed her back against the door. The handle dug painfully into her spine. Then she saw the expression in his eyes alter, and suddenly she knew what was going to happen next. As though the thought had prompted the action, he dropped one of his hands and wrenched aside the bathrobe, ignoring her struggles as he grabbed her breast. He dug his fingers into her.

  "Paul—No!"

  The hand on her throat choked her, stopping her from screaming. His leg went between hers, forcing them apart, pinning her. There was no space to kick or knee him. She tore at his wrist. Tiny points of light began to spark her vision. She felt his hand at her waist, yanking at the belt that still held the robe closed. No! God, no! Abruptly, she stopped struggling. Feeling the lack of resistance, Paul looked up. She forced herself to smile at him over his hand.

  "Bedroom…" she croaked.

  For a moment he didn't move, and she thought he was too far gone to listen to her. Then a grin touched his mouth. He stepped back, and as the pressure on her throat relaxed and his leg slid from between hers, she shot her knee up at his groin and pushed out as hard as she could.

  It was too soon. Her knee skidded off his thigh, and even as he reeled away, he was already grabbing for her again.

  She lunged through the doorway, feeling him close behind her as she stumbled down the hall. He caught hold of her bathrobe as she reached the top of the stairs, checking her, dragging her back in an unequal tug of war. She could see the door standing open at the bottom, and in desperation spun round and wrenched the robe from his fingers.

  She pitched back against the wall as it ripped free, her teeth snapping together painfully. Paul toppled the opposite way, into the open stairwell. He caromed off the banister and tumbled untidily to the bottom, crashing into the door and knocking it back against the wall before sprawling onto the black and white tiles of the entrance hall.

  Breathless, Kate ran down after him. His eyes were screwed shut, mouth frozen in a pained "O" as she stepped over his legs and opened the front door. Dazed, he didn't resist as she tucked her hands under his arms and began dragging him backwards.
He was heavy, but there wasn't far to go.

  It was only when his hips bumped down off the porch that he seemed to realise what was happening. "Whoa -" he said, stiffening, and Kate let him drop.

  His head cracked onto the concrete path, but even as the "Ow/" was forced from him, she was already running back inside. She banged the front door shut and leaned against it, panting. Her back and shoulders ached from the effort.

  For a few seconds there was silence outside, then she heard him grunt and curse as he scraped to his feet. "Fuck!" Another groan. "Bitch!"

  She heard him take a step towards the porch. "If you're still there when I get upstairs, I'm calling the police!" she shouted. She turned to find Miss Willoughby standing in the doorway behind her. Below the wig the old lady's face was shocked.

  "Is everything all right?"

  Kate saw her bathrobe was flapping open. She pulled it around her, trying to compose herself. "Yes. I'm sorry, it's…" An explanation defeated her. "Everything's fine."

  With Miss Willoughby staring after her, she hurried upstairs into the lounge. Keeping to the side of the window, she edged forward until she could look down onto the path. Paul was standing by the gate, rubbing the back of his head and glaring into the porch. He glanced up at the window. Kate jerked back, but he gave no sign of having seen her. Finally, with a last black look, he turned and walked slowly away.

  Kate watched until she could no longer see him in the dusk. Then she sagged. Her legs felt weak, and it was all she could do to make it to a chair before they gave way. She shook as she wrapped the bathrobe tight across her chest and hugged herself.

  The sudden clamour of the doorbell made her jump. God! Now what? Cautiously, she went back to the window and peered out. Whoever it was, they were out of sight on the porch. She hesitated, then crept back downstairs. The doorbell rang again when she was half-way down, almost making her miss a step. Mouth dry, she unlocked the door at the bottom. In the fading light, the figure framed in the stained-glass panel was even more indistinct than before.